


Lasting Legacy

by hermioneclone



Series: The Hall of Remembrance [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death, F/M, Gen, Hogwarts, Memorials, POV First Person, POV Severus Snape, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5724142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hermioneclone/pseuds/hermioneclone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death isn’t all that bad. Well, at least I think. I’m not really dead, now am I. I’m not really alive either. An imprint of a departed soul. Merlin, I can still hear that asinine Weasley brat parroting my words back to me in what I can only assume he intended to be a cheeky reply. But that’s what I am now, isn’t it? No, I’m not a ghost, not in the literal sense at least. The magic that binds me to this school was not of my own making. If it had been up to me, I would have left this world entirely, left it to join the rest of me that I somehow know, deep in my very soul (if I still have one), is finally at peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lasting Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> > "Legacy. What is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see."  
> -"The World Was Wide Enough," _Hamiliton_ , Lin-Manuel Miranda
> 
> In honor of the (I can't believe I'm saying this) late, great, Alan Rickman. Thank you for gracing us with your talent. A part of you will live on in your work. 

Death isn’t all that bad. Well, at least I think. I’m not really dead, now am I. I’m not really alive either. An imprint of a departed soul. Merlin, I can still hear that asinine Weasley brat parroting my words back to me in what I can only assume he intended to be a cheeky reply. But that’s what I am now, isn’t it? No, I’m not a ghost, not in the literal sense at least. The magic that binds me to this school was not of my own making. If it had been up to me, I would have left this world entirely, left it to join the rest of me that I somehow know, deep in my very soul (if I still have one), is finally at peace.

It can get tiresome, sometimes. Just hanging on the wall. Now I understand a bit why the Fat Lady and her friend Violet get so plastered. I am fortunate; I at least do not have to listen to brats whine about losing their password. Though it could be fun, I suppose, to mess with them a bit, especially the ones who deserved it. Maybe if she goes on a holiday, or another crazed former classmate of mine slashes her with a knife...oh wait, practically everyone I went to school with is dead too. They’ve invited me to drink with them a few times, but I’ve politely declined. I don’t relish the idea of what I might say under the influence of alcohol. I have no idea what my tolerance to drink made of oil paint might be. Food sits differently too. I don’t need to eat, but if I ever miss the sensation, there are enough paintings near the kitchens to satisfy me. I haven’t had any desire to touch the stuff in years.

There are worse things, I suppose, than being a portrait. I actually get called upon to offer my opinion, and I am respected for it. I’m allowed to wander through the other portraits in the castle if I like. Unlike some of my predecessors, my face is not hung in other important Wizarding establishments, though I hear that Potter has campaigned to get me at least a small frame in the Potions Department at the Ministry. As if I would ever be caught dead there. The sentiment is nice, I suppose. But never mind all that. Hogwarts was the only place of significance in my life. So here I stay.

The hardest thing to describe to a living person about being a painting is the two dimensional-ness of it all. You don’t look any different than the day you died (although thankfully in my case I don’t have blood staining my skin anymore). It’s part of the magic, the illusion of depth. You look down and see the knobs of your knees, the little stubs of your feet. You can hold your hand in front of your face. It all looks the same. But try rubbing those fingers together. You get a hint of plumpness, like a memory, yet it feels like two pieces of parchment rubbing against each other. This sensation, this disconnect between mind and body, this is what was the hardest to adjust to.

The headmistress’ office-my former office-is unusually quiet today. They are having a memorial service in the Hall of Remembrance today, just as they do every year to commemorate the Battle of Hogwarts. The day I died. I haven’t gone once. Minerva tried to convince me that first year, she even asked Potter to persuade me. I was firm in my answer. I wasn’t thick. I knew what I had done. No amount of love or regret was going to reverse the very real harm I had caused. Just because Potter had chosen to forgive me didn’t mean that the rest of the world would. It would be better for everyone if I was absent. It would be a sign of respect. I didn’t want to cause any more suffering.

They told me that people would see it the exact opposite, that it would be seen as disrespecting the dead. I promptly reminded them that I _am_ one of the dead, so I could do as I pleased. Really, what is the worst anyone is going to do? Speak ill of me? That’s not new. I suppose someone could try and torch my portrait, but that would require a lot more power and skill than I am worth. And they’d probably just plop me in a new frame and I’d go on like this forever. Albus chimed in then, trying to guilt trip me like always, but now it was different. He didn’t have anything over me anymore. I fulfilled my assignment. Potter destroyed Voldemort, Potter had lived, in spite of everything. I was done doing what Albus wanted. I’m my own man, now. As much as a portrait can be, that is.

Minerva gave up after the first year, huffing that it wasn’t on her if I wanted to be an insufferable crybaby. I saw the understanding in her eyes and knew she was trying to meet me halfway. Things were still strained between us, after all that happened in my final year. I fervently hope this will fade with time considering that eventually she will be in a portrait directly next to mine, which will be immensely uncomfortable if nothing changes. I think she’s acutely aware of this as well. We’re working on it.

Albus gave up after about the fourth year. Now he just smiles at me with that obnoxious twinkle in his eye as if he can grin me into changing my mind.

Potter never stopped coming. He waits until all of the other portraits leave for their place in the mural of Headmasters and Headmistresses that graced the back of the Hall. I never go into the Hall. I have a frame there. But I can’t bear to look into the faces of the people I let down. Lily has a portrait down there. Potter insisted that the dead from both wars be remembered. I haven’t talked to her. I’ve wanted to, but I wouldn’t know what to say. So I avoid it. I don’t wander as much as I did in my early days as a portrait, before the hall was constructed, so I don’t run into her. She can’t enter Minerva’s office short of an emergency, it’s only open to those of us who once held the title of Head of Hogwarts.

I don’t think she’d come even if she could. I don’t blame her.

This year, he hasn’t arrived yet. I glance at the clock above the fireplace and almost sigh in relief. Maybe this time he won’t come. He doesn’t have time to come up here and make it to the ceremony in time. Just as I get my hopes up, however, the door creaks open. Drat.

“Hello, Professor,” he greets cheerfully, something swaddled cradled in his arms.

“Potter,” I reply curtly. He’s not going to say anything I haven’t already heard before. The bundle in his arm shifts; a tiny hand reaches up and grabs at the air in the general direction of Potter’s face. He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to the chubby little knuckles. Something inside me stirs, but I ignore it. “A baby?” I ask in a bored drawl. “You came to guilt me with a baby?”

“Not at all,” Potter assures me. “I just thought it was time you met.”

I frown. “What is this child to me?” I don’t have any siblings or cousins, none I know of at least. I suppose Father could have impregnated some poor girl, so perhaps I have a secret half-sister no one knows about. It wouldn’t surprise me.

“Professor,” Potter continues, seeming to ignore me. “Meet Albus Severus Potter.”

My heart, or the echo of where my heart used to be, lurches, skipping a beat. “What?”

“My son.”

I stare at him for a moment. “That’s the stupidest name I have ever heard of. What did you do, take a look at a list of your dead professors and say, ‘Hey, that is a brilliant idea!’ Seriously, Potter. Your owl had a better name than that.”

Potter shrugs, seeming not to let my words affect him. My, how much has changed. “I thought it was a nice way to honor two of the people who sacrificed themselves so I could live,” he explained simply. “You live on, in him.”

I roll my eyes. “And what makes you think I want to?”

Potter shrugged. “He has my mother's eyes.” He shifts the boy so I can see him more clearly. While the child has a shock of messy black hair that clearly came from his grandfather’s side, his wide eyes were green and shockingly familiar. I suddenly feel myself overcome with the desire to hold this child, something I’ve never had the impulse to do. The realization that I can’t is a crushing blow, though I don’t let this show, obviously.

I look up at Potter’s expectant gaze. “I hope he wears it well and brings you great happiness,” I tell him sincerely. It’s as close as a thank you as I can get, and I know that he takes it as such.

“He already does.” He glances at his watch. “Now I really do have to get down to the ceremony.”

“Wait!” I call out, inexplicably, as he turns to leave with the baby. “What, no lecture? No attempt to persuade me to come with you?”

Potter shakes his head. “You’ll come when you’re ready.”

“Then why come at all?”

He shrugs again. “Tradition, I suppose. It just felt wrong not to.” We stand there awkwardly for a few moments, the silence only punctured by the mild fussing noises of little Sev. I’m pretending the first name doesn’t exist. Plenty of people go by their middle names, right? “Well, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Fine,” I sigh, wondering if this is exactly what he’d hoped I’d do all along. “I’ll come.”

The grin on his face confirmed my suspicion.

The Hall is really quite lovely. One side is filled with the dead of the first war, the other the more recent victims. I skipped my frame on the latter side to join the Mural of the Heads. I ignore Albus’ self-satisfied smirk, and wonder if he knew that our names, our legacies, were eternally joined in Potter’s child.

Then I saw it. For the second time that day, I saw the eyes that had haunted my nightmares and my daydreams for the greater part of twenty years. I froze, wanting desperately to flee but feeling rooted to the spot. Lily smiled at me from her portrait across the hall, her face as vibrant and full of life as I remembered. I waved a hand tentatively and gave a small wave. I realized then that shutting myself up in the office wasn’t what I was meant to be doing. I’m loath to admit it, but Potter and Albus were right. This was where I was meant to be. Being out in the world, or at least the part of the world that was mine. Telling my story so that maybe, just maybe, the young children scattered in the hall would not have to look at each other from their frames. Maybe they wouldn’t die in a pointless, ruinous war. Maybe their parents would not have to bury them.

Maybe this is my legacy.

**Author's Note:**

> I have at least one other story about the Hall of Remembrance, not sure when I will get to writing or posting it, but it is certainly something I'd like to explore further.
> 
> Also, just for the record, I am probably the only person who doesn't hate the name Albus Severus, I just think that Snape would think it was stupid, even if he was also touched.


End file.
